


Startup

by Ark



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Oblivious, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Modern Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 06:41:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4253274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ark/pseuds/Ark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the way of busy city friends, Enjolras and Grantaire haven’t seen each other for some months.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Startup

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, mes amis, it's been a while. I miss you and these forever in love Frenchmen. Here's a story begun long ago and just finished. Thank you to the lovely [soemily](http://soemily.tumblr.com) for betaing and making me better. 
> 
> Thank you, always, for reading.

In the way of busy city friends, they haven’t seen each other for some months. 

Enjolras blinks, because Grantaire looks like Grantaire, and also not. His hair is shorn short, and he has the ubiquitous Brooklyn beard, dark on his cheek. His eyes are liquid blue, verging on grey; mercurial, but his eyes haven’t changed. Enjolras recognizes him at once. It’s like a shock to the system after so much time.

Grantaire looks respectable. Enjolras keeps blinking. Grantaire has on a sleek black coat, black jeans and low black boots; the only break in color is the red wool scarf around his neck. Grantaire looks like himself and not, all evidence of the scruffy stoner Enjolras last saw six months ago -- can it really be six? -- is gone.

Then Grantaire is reeling Enjolras into a back-slapping dude-hug, and time, which seemed strangely suspended while Enjolras recognized Grantaire, suddenly speeds up. The contracted world expands. 

They’re in a hip Bushwick art gallery, so avant garde as to not exist on Google Maps yet. It’s a multi-floored half-converted warehouse, with whimsical installations strung about the many rooms, staircases and passages. 

When Enjolras first came in and tried to blend with the crowd, he wandered from room to room, sometimes unsure whether he was looking at art or the supplies for making it. He shut his mouth, feigned interest, and waited for Courfeyrac, until he spotted Grantaire. Until Grantaire saw him and flashed an instant smile from behind the new beard.

“What the fuck,” says Grantaire, releasing him, face now split by a wide grin. “It’s been like a _year_. What the hell are you doing here?”

An abrupt greeting from any other friend, but Grantaire is Grantaire, and he also sounds thrilled, slinging an arm around Enjolras and guiding them through the crowd to the bar set up in the corner. He doesn’t wait for Enjolras’ answer. He greets the woman behind the counter with a kiss to both cheeks, then hands Enjolras one of the plastic glasses full of red wine that she slides across. 

Three more people get cheek-kisses from Grantaire before they make their way to a quieter space under a tangled ball of lit Christmas lights. Whether the lights are fine art or leftovers from a holiday celebration, Enjolras won’t be the one to say. 

“Courfeyrac,” says Enjolras, when they get there. He faces off against the bizarro beaming Grantaire in what has to be a five hundred dollar jacket. “I’m supposed to meet him here.”

Grantaire’s smile shifts a fraction, then recovers. He nods sagely. “Well, it’s great to see you. Been too long. You look great.”

“So do you,” blurts Enjolras, and okay, he’s officially out of his element. Art galleries aren’t his forte on a good day, and he’s the only person in here wearing a business suit under his coat. Thank God the gallery’s too cool for heating. He gets to muffle the lawyer-look, a little. He doubts he’s fooling anyone. He takes a long drink of wine, stalling for time, and Grantaire seems happy to echo the gesture. “So what’s, uh, been going on?” 

Christ, it’s the worst of awkward conversations now, and for once it’s him who’s stumbling -- it’s Enjolras who can’t get over this transformed Grantaire, who is somehow being waylaid by an expensive haircut and shiny boots. 

What the fuck is the matter with him? Is he actually this materialistic, deep down? It’s going to take a lot of socialist cultural theory reading tonight to do penance.

“Kinda a lot,” says Grantaire expansively, in the immodest way he has when enthusiastic about a subject. “You really have no idea, do you? This is what you get for not being on social media, man. I mean, like, you have to join the present day. It was cute a few years ago, but how the hell else do you keep up with life and death and other people’s baby pictures?”

“You’re not exactly selling it,” says Enjolras, forcing himself to half-smile and try to relax. Reminds himself they’re friends, old friends catching up after time apart. Was it really six months? He could close his eyes and remember the last time he saw Grantaire like it was yesterday. 

An overly loud party at Courfeyrac’s (of course), where they sat shoulder to shoulder on the couch, sandwiched between chattering people. They bitched about the party and their friends and then world politics in an easy, tipsy way. 

It wasn’t a particularly stand-out night, but Enjolras remembers because it was comfortable, their tendency to argue and disagree cast aside by mutual disdain for the party. 

At the time it never crossed his mind that he wouldn’t see Grantaire for half a year. That would have seemed unfathomable.

“Why don’t you catch me up,” Enjolras suggests. If Grantaire can be the un-Grantaire, or perhaps the uber-Grantaire, Enjolras can coolly drink. He drinks.

“It’s a long story, and kind of a what-the-fuck one,” says Grantaire. “Every day I wake up and say, ‘Grantaire, the fuck?’ To summarize: I got in at this startup as a designer, and out of nowhere we just kinda took off. Rounds of venture capital investment like whoa, and then last month we got acquired by -- by one of the social networks you don’t use. Anyway, this is all to say that now I draw logos and stare at pixels all day, and get paid way too much to do it.”

“Whoa,” says Enjolras, and he knows he must look lost; how could he not have known about any of this?

“Everything’s been totally chaotic,” Grantaire says, with apology in his tone. “I feel like I haven’t seen anyone in forever.” When Grantaire drinks the level of wine in his cup drops significantly. “I guess we all got really busy.”

“Right,” says Enjolras, taking that for a hint. He shifts on his feet. “It’s good to run into you. Don’t let me keep you if you’re meeting someone--”

He finds that he does actually want to keep Grantaire there, but he tests the ground.

Grantaire’s responsive smile is brilliant. “I’m meeting everyone,” he says, and thrusts his hand with the glass into the air. Though they are set apart from the nearest throng, an immediate cheer goes up around the room. People respond to Grantaire’s motion as though he were mid-address to the crowd. Then the buzz resumes.

Enjolras blinks. He’s doing a lot of blinking. “You seem to know a lot of--” His brain catches up and he pales and flushes at once. “Is this, uh--” Confusedly, he gestures at the hanging Christmas tangle.

Grantaire throws back his head in a laugh. “No, the art isn’t mine,” he assures. But he gives a little flourish of an ironic bow, and indicates the vast warehouse around them. “This place sorta is, though. In a manner of speaking.” He seems at a loss for what to say, a stranger sight than the expensive scarf neatly knotted around his neck. Its bold flash of red. “You could say I’m the mayor of this town.” 

Enjolras will not blink again. Will not. He’s capable of processing information without his eyelids. He draws a breath. “The gallery?”

“Gallery, studios, workshops, coworking spaces. Everything’s getting built. There’s talk about communal living on the top floor, but we don’t want to get too ahead of ourselves.” 

Enjolras stares back, then looks around the space they occupy with new awareness. “That’s -- this is incredible, Grantaire.”

Grantaire’s eyes are lit-up. Blue like the inside of a flame. “Want the grand tour?”

“Yes.” Enjolras is reevaluating everything with new eyes. He fishes out his phone and finds a message from Courfeyrac from ten minutes ago: _Running late._ He puts the phone away. “Courfeyrac’s going to be late.”

“We’ll manage,” says Grantaire. This time, when they go to the bar to refill their wine glasses, Grantaire slips his hand under Enjolras’ elbow to guide them. It’s a friendly gesture that shouldn’t feel so intimate, shouldn’t send warmth radiating up Enjolras’ arm. He doesn’t move away, and Grantaire doesn’t let go, as he leads Enjolras through labyrinthine halls.

The basement will have darkrooms and video production studios, Grantaire explains. They skirt the big gathering of people on the first floor and examine the second, which has the beginnings of an office layout for coworking. 

In the third-floor performance space, Grantaire elaborates on plans to offer resources to young startups and residency programs for artists, talking in excited bursts. He’s proud of the promise of the warehouse, and it’s clear that the schemes aren’t half-baked ideas but projects already in motion. 

Enjolras takes in the tour with puzzled admiration. He nods and asks questions to keep from feeling overwhelmed. Grantaire is halfway through a speech on sustainability when Enjolras realizes that he can’t swallow the most pressing thought any longer.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” Enjolras asks. 

It’s true that they were never the best of friends, that they were often at odds, opinion-wise, in the days when they hung out near-daily. But they _were_ friends, and to have no clue that Grantaire’s life underwent such a transformation is jarring and feels wrong. 

Grantaire falters. “I thought you knew.” He shrugs that away, like it shouldn’t matter, but the good humor is gone from his expression. “I wasn’t aware that we texted.”

The history of their texts is short and stilted, and six months cold. 

Enjolras opens his mouth. He has no idea what to say to that.

“Nevermind,” says Grantaire, as though already regretting the statement. “It’s my fault. Maybe I had some idea about inviting you to the Warehouse in a more finished state. She’s gonna be a beauty once she’s done.” 

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say _at all_. His mouth stays slack. He feels abruptly awful. “That was unfair of me,” he says at last. “I’m equally responsible for keeping in touch.”

And he hadn’t. He hadn’t asked the friends he was closer to for updates about Grantaire, either, though he was curious. Of course he was. Very curious. But Grantaire had a habit of vanishing for long stretches, to work on an art project, or going suddenly to another country to discover himself, or staying indoors when his mood was dark and unsociable. 

He’d explained it to Enjolras once, with a touch of pride: “The most consistent thing about me is my inconsistency. Even I don’t know what I’m about to do next.”

Now Grantaire seems grounded in a way he wasn’t six months ago. It could be the money, but Enjolras doubts it. Grantaire had been as ardent a fighter against inequality in their college club as any, even if his activism was flavored with cynicism. 

Money brings greater responsibility and possibility, however, and Grantaire has used his to further an ambitious personal project. It’s commendable, and Enjolras is impressed. 

He hasn’t missed how many of Grantaire’s plans for the building include social justice initiatives, community involvement, and an emphasis on green sustainability -- all the dreams Les Amis used to dream. 

Enjolras is impressed, and he hopes it shows in his expression.

Grantaire says, “Water under the bridge. I’m glad you’re here now.”

“Me too,” says Enjolras. It’s quiet in the big, wood-paneled half-moon of a room. There could be no party downstairs at all, no rest of the building, no Brooklyn. It feels strange to be standing here with Grantaire and strange to think that they could possibly have been so long apart. “I wanted to, you know. Text you.” 

“Why didn’t you?” Grantaire tilts his head.

“I didn’t know what to say.” As if on cue, Enjolras’ phone vibrates in his pocket; Courfeyrac, no doubt, at last arrived. They both hear it, but he ignores it. He’s aware that this conversation is increasingly important. “Why didn’t you? You used to send me trivia texts all the time.”

Grantaire keeps tilting his head sideways; at this rate he’s going to end up upside down. “I thought it was better if I didn’t see you.”

Of all answers, Enjolras has not expected this one. Or hasn't he? Grantaire was conspicuously absent from the few recent gatherings Enjolras managed to attend. While it appears Grantaire’s been quite justifiably busy, Enjolras still can't reconcile why he wasn’t at Bahorel’s birthday last month. He’d looked for Grantaire there, to no avail. 

The admittance of active avoidance is like being doused with cold water. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Enjolras demands.

“It doesn’t mean anything.” Grantaire lifts his shoulders, drinks wine. He wipes the back of his mouth. “I make a lot of stupid decisions. News at eleven.”

“Grantaire--”

“Or maybe it wasn’t so stupid. I got a job, which is what you were always telling me to do to better myself, and now look at me. I’m a Horatio Alger success story.” Grantaire jams his free hand into his pocket, talks fast. “I’m building this place, and it’s going to help fund dozens of artists and empower more, and we’ll create companies to help change the world on the second floor, and on this level we’ll have plays and concerts. And before you go taking credit for influencing our founding constitution, you should know that as a teenager I was a really big fan of the musical RENT and I’m fulfilling a youthful pledge made to the spirit of Jonathan Larson.”

Enjolras wants to smile, but he can’t. “Grantaire--”

“Forget what I said before that, okay?”

“I won’t.” Enjolras steps closer into Grantaire’s space. “Tell me why you didn’t want to see me.”

“I’m selfish. It’s easier.” Grantaire sighs. He frees his hand from his pocket and runs it through his hair, a nervous gesture; for a moment he also seems surprised to find his short, neat cut in place of the old scraggly curls. He rubs his beard, a new gesture. Then: “It hurts to look at you. It’s, like, physically painful.” Grantaire’s lips purse, like he knows how that sounds but can’t stop talking. Won't stop. “I needed to be away a while. Then all this stuff happened, one thing after another, and I...it’s like I said. I guess I built it up to this huge thing in my head, to invite you here once we’d gotten more stuff done. I wanted you to see the finished product first.”

The latter makes a sort of sense, but Enjolras is unable to move past Grantaire’s other declarations. “It hurts to--”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Enjolras, I first told you I loved you in college,” snaps Grantaire, suddenly angry, or finally letting his anger show. “The last time was two years ago, New Year’s Eve. Can you give me a goddamned break and not make me spell it out again? For once in my life I think I made the right decision. Look what I accomplished when I wasn’t worried about your approval.” The words are harsh, but Enjolras knows they both deserve to hear them said, and Enjolras doesn’t flinch. 

Enjolras hesitates. “Do you want me to go?”

“No,” says Grantaire. “But I need you to understand where I was coming from.”

Enjolras nods shortly. His stomach feels tight and churning, and he isn’t sure where to rest his gaze, eyes flicking to Grantaire’s distraught face, then away, taking in the wood-paneled walls. He understands and he doesn’t. There’s always been a kind of tension between them, born of equal parts attraction and repulsion. 

They mesh intellectually in every way until they don’t, and then the gulfs are great and divergent. Socially they were always at odds, with Enjolras known as fiery and driven, an authoritative influence from college through law school and now at his firm. Grantaire was an aimless, artful, charismatic drifter who ended up as a barista to fund his artistic endeavors and crashed on his friends’ couches to pass the time. Grantaire had been that.

What Grantaire says isn’t entirely true, however, at least from Enjolras’ perspective. Perspective is a funny thing; what’s true for one person in a situation means something else entirely to another. Hence the unpredictability of witnesses to the same crime. It’s true that he knew Grantaire bore him affection. 

Obscene suggestions where Enjolras was concerned had peppered Grantaire’s speeches since the day they met. Through years of friendship Enjolras came to expect these allusions from Grantaire; they were as much a part of Grantaire’s presentation of self as his quick wit, generous nature and propensity to drink. Just another aspect of Grantaire.

He suspects that when Grantaire speaks of college he's referencing the night in the middle of junior year. At the end of the first semester, they’d all gathered to celebrate their impending international adventures. All of Les Amis were planning to study abroad save Combeferre, who had lab projects that couldn’t be left behind, and Courfeyrac, who said he couldn’t leave Combeferre behind. 

Everyone got riotously drunk, and began sharing stories of the lusty foreigners they hoped to meet and the intoxicants they heard were available in countries more chill than America. 

Someone asked Grantaire what he was most looking forward to in Amsterdam, and what he thought of towering Dutchmen; and Grantaire said he was most anticipating the tulips, and that he had no plans for romance, since his heart belonged to Enjolras, whom he loved. 

It was a showy, drunken, comedic speech that had everyone laughing, including Enjolras. It was no different than any other Grantarian monologue, except now when Enjolras thinks about it. He supposes it contained many words about love. 

New Year’s more recently was messier and had lingered in his mind. They were all smashed on cheap champagne, come through rounds of singing every song they knew topped with a rousing _Auld Lang Syne._ At the stroke of midnight the circle of friends kissed each other, everyone trading off in a cheering mass amidst the noisemakers and confetti. 

When it was their turn Grantaire grabbed Enjolras without hesitation, and bussed his mouth; the kiss was soft and close-lipped, and Enjolras remembers being surprised by that, since even Jehan had slipped him tongue. 

Then Grantaire put his forehead against Enjolras’, his pupils blown with coke and the whites of his eyes red from weed, and he’d said, “I love you so fucking much, man, you don’t even know,” and then he’d let go and dipped Marius into a movie-star kiss that made the room erupt with applause.

Enjolras remembers standing half-stunned, then forcing himself past the moment; Grantaire was beyond intoxicated on three substances and was likely in a state of blackout. He wasn’t recording memories, and probably wouldn’t remember what he said. Later Enjolras heard Grantaire tell many people that he “fucking loved them, man,” and so he hadn’t thought of it again. Much.

Enjolras stops nodding, faces Grantaire. “I...I think I understand. Grantaire, I --” It seems utterly and completely ridiculous to have missed the depth of this for so long, with the amount of evidence gathered, and Enjolras a trial attorney. “I just never thought you were serious.”

It’s Grantaire’s turn to nod. “I deserved that. I didn’t take anything seriously, especially myself. I never held it against you when you judged me. You were usually right. And so one day I decided to stop fighting you on it, stop trying to persuade you, and to try it your way.” He gestures to the walls around him. “Et voila. Now I’m quite serious. I dream in communal building plans.” He drains his glass. “I’m not, like, cured, though, Enjolras. I have fancy stuff now and I’m working on stuff I believe in, but I’m still me. I’m still going to get too drunk tonight and get into a fight with someone.”

“I’m glad,” says Enjolras, and when Grantaire raises his eyebrows, “I’m glad you’re still you.” All of a sudden he is quite close to Grantaire, despite the bigness of the room. Then the question is out of his mouth: “In every way?”

Grantaire seems to be having trouble breathing. “Try me.”

“Are you still in love with me, Grantaire?”

“Once I would have said, as the moon follows the setting sun: a matter of course. As the tides rise, and the seasons change, as spring flees from winter’s grasp: inevitably.” Grantaire exhales, manages a wry grin. “I’ve toned it down a bit. You’re all right.”

Enjolras finds himself smiling back. “I can work with that,” he says. “All right is a fair assessment. You should hear some of the names they call me at the firm.”

“Oh, _do_ tell.” Just like that they’re back on even ground -- better than even; they’re sloping in each other’s direction, leaning in. 

Enjolras shakes his head. “I’ll tell a different secret,” he says, and he closes the space between and kisses Grantaire. 

Grantaire’s lips are a shock of electricity, just like he remembers from New Year’s two years ago, only this time, Enjolras slips him tongue. As far as kisses go, it isn’t New Year’s at all. It’s like Christmas morning. 

“I’ve wanted to know what it would be like to really kiss you since freshman orientation,” says Enjolras, when they break away after a lightning strike of an embrace.

Grantaire’s jaw works but no sound emerges. 

“Since then my imagination has expanded considerably,” says Enjolras.

Grantaire tries again to speak. His eyelids are heavy, shadowing the emotion in his eyes. “Don’t,” he starts, stops. “Don’t say this if you don’t mean it. I kept myself away from you and it’s the hardest, stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I’d rather be your friend again than have this be weird.”

Enjolras appreciates the out, he truly does; but he’s in a stage of self-actualization and self-realization from which there feels no turning back. 

In the lonely months that have passed, what he missed most (what’s been missing) was Grantaire, their unique blend of sentimental antagonism, the balance achieved when they faced off.

Seeing Grantaire again, feeling his body’s response to the polished Grantaire, only serves to remind how much Grantaire also turns him on. He'd made himself forget about that.

“We’re already weird,” answers Enjolras, and he kisses Grantaire again. He kisses Grantaire’s lips, his cheeks, his neck. “Totally fucking weird. Also widely misunderstood.” 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire breathes, and his name is said with wonder and also with a kind of wild desperation that pushes every single button that Enjolras never knew he had.

Enjolras backsteps them toward the wood-paneled wall; the empty plastic cups clatter to the ground, forgotten. He braces against Grantaire clad in black wool, feels the coat's soft edges as he runs his hands along the length of Grantaire’s body. 

Serious kissing, once started, is impossible to stop. Neither want to stop. Their mouths are open and wet, tongues loosed, fingers twisted with vicious abandon in each other’s hair. They’re vying for the upper hand, a development Enjolras finds thrilling, maybe his favorite development in the history of ever. 

The few lackluster dates he’s attempted recently felt so dull. So _predictable._ Horribly consistent. There was no urgency, no spark, no heat, no challenge at all. In the past Grantaire had seemed an infuriating puzzle, but always, always an intriguing one, and tonight all of Grantaire’s pieces slot together and Enjolras sees him whole; the revealed pattern is beautiful and stuns him. 

The final missing piece, Enjolras realizes, is himself. So he fits in against Grantaire and doesn’t let go until a polite cough jars their reverie. It takes three coughs to break them apart.

The slim young woman Grantaire had cheek-kissed behind the bar is standing at the top of the staircase, arms crossed, bemused amusement on her face. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says, and does sound a touch sorry, “Grantaire, we need you downstairs. Speech time.”

Grantaire’s cheeks are flushed rose and his eyes are bright. He looks better than Enjolras has ever seen him look -- he looks _happy_ , the expression so rare that it quite transforms him. He has a fistful of Enjolras’ coat that he doesn’t relinquish. “Thanks, Ep. Gimme five?”

“Five minutes,” she agrees with a nod. “Otherwise I’m gonna have to bring the party up here. Everyone’s asking for you.”

“Five,” swears Grantaire, and she disappears without a backward glance. Grantaire hauls Enjolras back in without pause and kisses him breathless. Then he moves back a fraction of an inch. “I gotta help wrap this up,” he says, sounding as though he’s been tasked with a great burden to do anything that keeps him from Enjolras’ mouth. He stops contemplating Enjolras’ mouth and meets Enjolras’ gaze head-on. “Don’t leave, please. Please don’t leave.”

There’s a noisy part of Enjolras that indeed wants to flee, that screams fight-or-flight, that harshly questions what the fuck he thinks he’s doing. But that voice is drowned in the oceanic blue of Grantaire’s eyes on him.

“I won’t go,” Enjolras hears himself say. “We have a lot of catching up to do, don’t we?”

This time, when Grantaire goes in for a kiss, or when Enjolras leans down -- whoever starts it -- both do -- the kiss is softer, but no less heated: a promise, a prelude, to future embraces. This takes at least three minutes of Grantaire’s allotted time, and it’s with a mutual sigh that they draw apart. 

“C’mon,” says Grantaire. When he puts out his hand, looking less sure about the action than he had exploring Enjolras’ teeth with his tongue, Enjolras surprises them both by taking it. They descend the staircase side-by-side.

The gathering is in full swing by now, music amped up and the crowd considerably wine-soaked, and no one seems to give their entrance a second glance except Courfeyrac. 

Courfeyrac, newly arrived and already surrounded by a circle of admirers, does a double-take. Then he bows away from the group and meets them at the foot of the stairs. They have to drop hands to receive his bone-thudding hugs.

“I’ll be back,” Grantaire tells them, then tilts as though to whisper into Enjolras’ ear, but he nips, delicate, at Enjolras’ earlobe in lieu of words. He wades out through the crowd, which converges joyfully around him.

Courfeyrac’s grin is shit-eating and both of his eyebrows are arched above sparkling hazel eyes.

“Don’t start,” Enjolras mutters, upon which Courfeyrac mimes being mortally wounded. Courfeyrac grabs his arm and drags him towards a corner, stopping only to accept two flutes of champagne from a tray in exchange for a wink. He presses the glass into Enjolras’ hand.

“Oh, I have not yet even _begun_ ,” trills Courfeyrac. “Jeez, you run thirty minutes late and miss the hook-up of the _century_ \--”

“Courfeyrac.”

“I rib you because I adore you,” says Courfeyrac, then attempts to school his mischievous expression. He leans in conspiratorially. “Is Grantaire as good a kisser as I’ve oft fantasized?”

“You couldn’t possibly--”

“I can and I do know.” Courfeyrac takes a sip, his tone bubbly as champagne: “Give me some credit, Enjolras. My second language is arousal. Your cheeks are lit up like it’s the Fourth of July and your lips--”

“Drink your drink,” says Enjolras, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand; his lips do feel swollen from the intensity of the make-out. If possible, he blushes an even darker red.

“It’s adorable,” Courfeyrac assures. “And it’s about fucking time.”

Enjolras stares at his friend until revelation dawns. “You told me to meet you here so that I’d see Grantaire.”

“Uh, duh,” agrees Courfeyrac, between delicate sips. “He’s doing good, isn’t he? Money turns some people into a bag of dicks, but he looks like a million bucks. Several millions, if you follow the Internet news.”

“I don’t.” All at once the know-it-all tone is too much. “Why didn’t you tell me about all this? Tell me the Warehouse was Grantaire’s? You said, and I quote, ‘Come to this art thing, you need more culture, you heathen.’”

“I stick by that statement,” says Courfeyrac, “and you need a few other things it looks like you’re gonna get. Tonight, even.”

Enjolras might be turning purple. 

Courfeyrac is beaming. “Okay, no more teasing,” he says, “for the time being. The truth of it is that we thought you knew about Grantaire’s...evolution, and you were being even more stubborn than usual in pretending not to care. You’ve been totally silent about him for months. Finally Combeferre, penetratingly brilliant as he is, suggested that maybe you really had no idea. That, wrapped up in your work and case-load and habitual avoidance of the primary subject, you’d somehow missed all the headlines. Like, you’re not even on Instagram.”

“Social media is a waste of time,” says Enjolras, with slightly less conviction than he normally makes the declaration. His gaze tracks Grantaire in the party-press laughing and smiling with two dozen people trying to shake his hand at once. 

Enjolras clears his throat. “Maybe I need to waste more time,” he admits. 

Courfeyrac looks like he’s resisting the urge to kiss Enjolras’ face. “Who even _are_ you right now?”

Enjolras never gets the opportunity to answer, because just then Grantaire shakes his last hand, gives a final air-kiss, and hops up onto a stage set underneath a hanging statue made of disembodied Barbie doll parts welded together. The DJ cuts the music and a hush eclipses the chatter.

Grantaire still looks flushed, but with exuberance and triumph; the wine-cup in his hand is full as he hoists it into the air. “Citizens!” he crows, and through the mass of party-goers his eyes find Enjolras’. Enjolras smiles back. In that moment, he finds himself incapable of doing anything else.

“Citizens,” says Grantaire, “I’ll try to keep this brief. Those who know me know I am a man of few words.” The crowd erupts in laughter. Many of them seem to know Grantaire. “Tonight we are here to celebrate Art, the worthiest of humankind’s traditions. It is through Art that we are made to see all that we are -- wonderful and terrible, disruptive and yet worthy of salvation. Art is a mirror to the soul, and by studying the reflections artists create we can come to recognize ourselves. Art is never shy, never ashamed. If it is grotesque, it is also beautiful because it shows our truths. If it be beautiful, it is also multi-layered, wrought with time and labor, sweat and blood. No picture here, no sculpture, no installation, has but one meaning, one interpretation, one way of being read, just as no man or woman or person can be defined so narrowly. Art is as complicated as its makers, as human beings. But we are far from finished creating.” His gaze leaves Enjolras to sweep the faces in the room. “My friends, this space, this Warehouse, will be an open studio for all who would contribute something to our greater cause. And what is that cause? It is humanity. It is adding your own piece to the soul-mirror, so that we may all see more clearly. If you write words or code, take pictures or draw them, chisel life from stone or coax it from clay, if you make sense of science, the stars, the seas, if you read law to know how it might one day be re-written --” His eyes are on Enjolras again. “If you make poetry from couplets or sonatas or from formulas -- in short, if you are an Artist, and all are, you will be welcome here. There is a place for you, there is space, we must have you. You are home. Thank you. Maestro, the music.” 

The DJ spins into a soaring electronic beat as Grantaire steps off the stage to raucous applause and cheers. Enjolras’ claps hard enough to hurt and next to him Courfeyrac is whooping.

The well-wishers rush Grantaire again, so Enjolras is left watching him from afar with a strange falling sensation in his stomach -- half between hunger and nervous butterflies. The butterflies careen wildly, starved.

“He totally deserves to get laid after that,” muses Courfeyrac. “You better be on it or I’m calling Combeferre for permission to do it myself.”

“Bite your tongue,” snaps Enjolras. 

But he doesn’t deny it. Watching Grantaire declaim has stoked the heat that’s long been building into a firestorm. He wants to go to Grantaire, and take him into his arms in front of everyone, and kiss him long and hard. He wants this badly.

After thirty seconds of intense internal debate, he does it.

“Congratulations,” says Enjolras, when he lets a thunderstruck Grantaire back up for air. “That was really something.” Then he marches back to Courfeyrac’s side to let the new line of people queued up to wring Grantaire’s hand have their chance.

“Who. Are. You,” Courfeyrac demands again, “and what have you done with my friend Enjolras, and with the stick up his ass?”

“People can change.” Enjolras shrugs. _No picture here, no sculpture, no installation, has but one meaning, one interpretation, one way of being read, just as no man or woman or person can be defined so narrowly._ In a way he knows this line was meant for him. He and Grantaire are no longer the parts they played for years; the script has been greatly expanded. Grantaire is not who he once was. Enjolras is not. What remains between them is what has always been there, acknowledged or not: lust, chemistry, contrast, and deep sympathy that has, for Enjolras, gone willfully unexamined. No more.

Because when Courfeyrac says, thoughtfully cautious, “He really cares about you, you know. Try not to break his heart,” Enjolras turns to look his friend in the eyes. Courfeyrac knows him better than anyone save Combeferre, and he startles at the fierce sincerity of Enjolras’ expression, having anticipated exasperation.

“I know,” says Enjolras. 

“I think I may be in love with him,” says Enjolras.

“I know I am,” says Enjolras.

Courfeyrac opens his mouth.

Enjolras shuts his own abruptly, grinds his teeth. He swallows, mouth dry, but is unable to keep his jumbled thoughts from vocalizing: “You think that’s crazy. You think I’ve never loved anyone but my pet causes and I don’t know what it is. You think I can’t, because I haven’t talked to him in half a year before tonight, like a coward. Because before that I was harsh with him, and ignored his advances, and rolled my eyes at him, since we were eighteen and goddamned _children_ who thought we could save the world. You think I don’t deserve him. You think--”

Courfeyrac’s arm drapes warm around Enjolras’ shoulder, interrupting the barrage of words. “I think that you should tell him all about it, but maybe save that for the third or fourth date,” he says gently. “It’ll be a lot to take in for Grantaire. As for me, I’ve known since junior year at least, idiot.” He squeezes Enjolras close with great affection. “And if anyone has ever deserved each other, it’s you and Grantaire.” 

Enjolras shuts his eyes and catches his breath. He feels dizzy and lightheaded, as though relieved of a great burden he hadn’t known he was carrying. Courfeyrac props him up a while, until he feels Courfeyrac shift free and a new arm slide into place. Grantaire smells of red wine and musk, of smoke and of sweat from standing under the spotlight. Underneath is an expensive scent, like lavender muddled in citrus. Enjolras opens his eyes.

“Hi,” says Grantaire. 

“Hi,” Enjolras manages. It’s almost difficult to look at Grantaire now that he’s said aloud to Courfeyrac what has so long remained unsaid; but conversely all he wants to do is look at Grantaire and never quit with the looking. 

“We’re winding this up,” says Grantaire. “DJ is calling it after the next song.”

“Okay,” says Enjolras. You’d never guess that he’s one of the most promising, up-and-coming trial lawyers of his generation, lauded for ferocious opening and closing arguments that are known to make juries weep. He’s reduced to syllables. 

“You didn’t leave,” says Grantaire, sounding more than pleased. “Did you really like the speech?”

“It was excellent. You were,” says Enjolras. He gets his bearings back enough to regain full sentences and take in their surroundings. The crowd is, indeed, dwindling, and giving them space where they stand leaning against each other, Grantaire’s arm secured around Enjolras’ waist. 

Courfeyrac is now ten paces away and laughing in a charming fashion to a new circle of friends, but he catches Enjolras’ eye and mouths _Third date._ Then he’s being swept towards the street with the rest of the party.

“Learned from watching the best,” says Grantaire. As the room quiets around them, he lets go of Enjolras and moves to stand before him. His eyes are wide and blue and very clear. “Will you stay?”

Enjolras casts a glance around the airy gallery. “Here?” His heart his thudding in his chest, so fast and loud he wonders if Grantaire can hear it also.

Grantaire shakes his head. The short haircut becomes him but Enjolras feels a sudden pang for the old -- beloved -- riot of black curls. The beard makes him look more mature. Steadier. “I have a room upstairs. I’m the first in the plan for collective living.” He hesitates, bites his lip, then says: “I’m not going to try and fuck you tonight.”

Surprise and disappointment and the relief of his shell-shocked nerves that are protesting that the world is changing too quickly, and abject confusion; so that all Enjolras can say is, “No?”

“I’ve waited long enough,” answers Grantaire. “I thought I would be waiting all my life. I can wait some more. I’ve drunk too much wine and you’ve drunk more than you usually do and I’m high on adrenaline and I’m pretty sure I must be hallucinating or maybe tripping balls from one of the many pills I’ve been slipped tonight and in summation: no. If we’re going to do this, I don’t want there to be anything else between us. If this is real, if this is going to happen, I want to be sober when it does.”

 _I love you,_ Enjolras wants to say then, despite Courfeyrac’s third-date advice. What he says is, “I agree.”

Grantaire’s smile is brighter than all of the room’s fluorescent lights combined. “Good,” he says. He catches Enjolras’ hand and brings it to his lips, kisses the back of it. “But you’ll stay? Because I’m totally cool with trying to fuck you in the morning.”

Enjolras laughs. God, when was the last time he really laughed? When has he ever been this full of excitement and anticipation and glorious uncertainty? Never. Only now. “I’ll stay,” he tells Grantaire.

Grantaire guides him towards the stair, where they ascend, leaving a mess of party detritus behind. Grantaire’s room is beyond the large, wood-paneled room that started it all. Enjolras has to press him once more against the wall to replay their first real kiss. This time, with no other engagements at hand, they remain at the wall a long while. 

At last Grantaire fumbles for a doorknob and they nearly fall inside a small, unadorned live-work space: floor-to-ceiling windows, an easel, a stack of unfinished canvas, many unpacked boxes, a mattress shoved into the corner. Only an antique desk stocked with the latest model Apple computer and enormous monitor, several drawing tablets, and a line of fancy guitars mounted on the wall attest to Grantaire’s newfound wealth. 

“Sorry,” says Grantaire, kicking art supplies out of the way to clear a path to the bed, “I haven’t really had time to clean up or furnish the place. If I’d known you were--”

Enjolras interrupts with a shake of his head. “It’s very you,” he says. “It’s just the way it should be.”

The expression Grantaire turns on him is at first indecipherable. Then it clarifies into need, sharp and unhidden. “You’re wearing a three-piece suit,” he points out. “Let me find you something to sleep in.”

Enjolras has hold of Grantaire’s wrist. Doesn’t let him go. “I don’t need much.” 

Grantaire exhales. “Right,” he says. “Right.” So he steps closer instead, reversing his momentum towards the dresser. “May I?” At Enjolras’ nod, he moves to strip him of his coat, then suit-jacket. He takes a while unknotting Enjolras’ tie, winding up the plum silken ends in his hands. “If you knew how long I’ve wanted to get you out of a suit and tie--” He halts the line of thought as though reconsidering it. His hands are more certain, making quick work of the line of buttons down Enjolras’ shirt-front.

“How long?” Enjolras doesn’t recognize his own voice, husky, low, dropping octaves, baritone-rich. 

“Freshman year debate team,” says Grantaire, and shrugs as though to dislodge the weight of all those years. “I think that’s the only reason I managed to stick with it. I lived for that red tie you used to rock.” 

Six years: that is how long Grantaire has wanted him. And Enjolras -- 

“You cleaned up pretty well yourself,” says Enjolras. “Why do you think I asked Professor Mabeuf to let you stay on the team after you got kicked off campus? At the time I would have said it was because you were a valuable asset despite your run-ins with Res Life over the underage drinking and the unauthorized parties. And I would have been telling half of the truth.”

Grantaire’s fingers falter before regaining grace, and he slides Enjolras’ open shirt from his shoulders. His eyes hide any other reaction in appreciation. His hands reach out to smooth from Enjolras’ abdomen up over his nipples, the muscles of his arms, the cords of his neck, settling for an instant on his shoulders. Grantaire kisses him hungrily, then his hands slide back down to undo Enjolras’ belt. 

Enjolras steps free of his pants, clad only now in the plain striped green boxers he’d put on in the morning without a thought that any other eyes would see them. Still, the expression on Grantaire’s face makes him glad that the lights have stayed off. Enjolras is blushing. It's been a long time since he has undressed with another person, and no one has looked at him the way Grantaire does now. 

That it is Grantaire should be strange but is not strange. What’s strange is that it’s Enjolras who has to repress the urge to take everything off, to rip Grantaire free from his clothes and push him onto the bed and _fuck_ the conditions they’d agreed to downstairs. He shivers, and hides shivering by hastening to uncover Grantaire. Grantaire is quick to help.

Instead of pushing, they tumble into bed together, limbs tangled, kissing like it has become second nature in a handful of hours. Grantaire’s body is all firm, hard lines against his own; Grantaire is hard against Enjolras’ belly but he does not speak of it, not yet. He touches Enjolras with slow, exploratory caresses, letting his fingers sift and linger in Enjolras’ hair.

“If I’m tripping these are the best drugs,” Grantaire murmurs into Enjolras’ neck.

“I’ve never gotten high,” Enjolras says, philosophical, “but I think I know what you mean.”

They fall asleep like that: arms and legs entwined, Grantaire’s head fit to the slope of Enjolras’ shoulder. The rasp of his beard tickles Enjolras' skin. They fall asleep mid-conversation, so that neither loses the point of debate they had been arguing. Both win.

Enjolras opens his eyes to brilliant sunlight through the uncurtained windows. For a moment his brain panics as it catches him up to the realities of where he is and all that occurred the night before. But as the sequence unspools he relaxes again. 

He’s where he wants to be. Where he might have been years before, if not for the dual stubbornness of their natures. People change, but some are painfully slow to the act. Silently he vows to make up for lost time.

The weight of Grantaire’s head is no longer on his shoulder so Enjolras turns his head. Grantaire is wide awake, propped next to him on his elbow. When Enjolras smiles, Grantaire doesn’t even try to pretend like he wasn’t watching Enjolras sleep. He gives a dazzling smile that goes all the way up to his eyes.

Enjolras indulges in a stretch. “You should’ve woken me up. What time is it?”

“It doesn’t matter. Time is relative, a false construct of man, an attempt to tame and categorize our mortality.” Grantaire leans in and kisses Enjolras, keeps his lower lip trapped between his teeth before pulling back with a sigh and a grope after his watch on the cardboard box that is serving for a bed-table. “Ten o’clock. Do you have somewhere you’re supposed to be?” He seems to be holding his breath.

“I’m supposed to be here,” says Enjolras.

Grantaire’s eyes flutter closed; his lashes lie in a black line against his cheek before he opens them again. “I was afraid you’d change your mind,” he says quietly. “I lay here and watched you in maximum creeper mode and waited for you to wake up and decide you’d made a catastrophic mistake.” 

“Grantaire, no.” Enjolras feels a sudden pang, an ache he’s never felt before. It takes a moment before he realizes the pain is radiating from his heart beneath the breastbone. “The mistakes I made with you are in the past. I’d rather not revisit them just now -- I prefer the present, and the future. If I recall, we had plans for the morning.”

He watches Grantaire’s eyes widen and his Adam’s apple bob on a swallow. Grantaire stares back at Enjolras; his tongue darts out to wet his lips; but he appears at a loss for words, a rare look on him indeed. Enjolras cups Grantaire’s chin with his hand. The dark beard is soft under his fingertips.

“Are you sober, then?”

Grantaire’s mouth works. “I’ve never been less drunk.”

“Good.” Enjolras moves then, decisive, tugging Grantaire over and on top of him. He completes the movement without hesitation, then arches up beneath so that Grantaire can feel how sure he is. He’s been hard since he woke up under Grantaire’s gaze. He’s never been so hard, so certain. 

Grantaire ducks down and kisses along Enjolras’ neck thus positioned, as though suddenly shy. His kisses are light, sweetly reverent. “We don’t have to go fast,” he whispers. “It’s enough to kiss your collarbone.”

“It’s not for me,” Enjolras disagrees. Appreciates the offer, of course; marvels at Grantaire’s new self-restraint. Will have none of it. “Do you know how much I want you?”

Soundlessly, seeming to lack the capacity to create sound, Grantaire shakes his head. 

So Enjolras shows him. It’s the only thing for it. Left to words he might explain all day, but gestures are expedient, and Enjolras has always been a man of action. He tightens his hold on Grantaire, wraps his arms around him and catches his mouth in kiss that reveals at last the depths of his desire. There is no restraint in the embrace, no room for second-guessing or alternate interpretation: it is primal and demanding and desperately urgent. Open mouths, clash of teeth and tongues, a moan that is a plea, that passes from his lips into Grantaire, who swallows it. 

When they come up for air Grantaire stares at him slack-jawed. “Holy shit.”

Enjolras rolls his hips, impatient. Grantaire laughs and drops a lighter kiss on his brow. “I don’t need to be told twice. _Enjolras._ Let me see if I have anything--”

“Let us pray,” hums Enjolras, and Grantaire is startled into a laugh. “It’s at least four blocks to the closest bodega in this Godforsaken hipster neighborhood.”

With a grimace of regret, Grantaire slides off of him, hits the floor, and starts to rummage through a variety of cardboard packing boxes with increasingly less regard for the supplies inside, which go flying. At first Enjolras props his head on his hand to watch. Then, to further inspire the search, he kicks free of his boxers. 

Grantaire pauses. “Jesus fucking Christ. That’s not fair.” He makes as though to move back to the bed, but Enjolras holds up a wagging finger.

“Look harder.” Enjolras lets his hand drop. Impressed with his own audacity, he wraps his hand around his cock and strokes once, twice. “Else I’ll have to start without you.”

“A fiend,” declares Grantaire, “a diabolical fiend in my bed where I thought I saw an angel. Ah, cruel torment that I have tasted.” Now a box is totally upended, its contents scattered as Grantaire sorts through with frantic hands and one eye on Enjolras. “You’re killing me here, man.” Another box sacrificed. “It hasn’t exactly been the love shack around here, you know.”

Enjolras keeps stroking, inordinately pleased and beyond turned on. His whole body is vibrating, alternating laughter and building pleasure. “I can see that.” He blinks at Grantaire, who is watching his hand, his cock. “Why not?”

Grantaire is ruggedly attractive, sports the hippest haircut and trendiest facial hair; his body, now that Enjolras can see most of it in the light, is as delicious as the darkness had hinted, all well-toned planes and lithe muscle from no doubt too much yoga. He’s heard stories of startups having their own dedicated yoga rooms alongside the beer-pong tables. Grantaire is softhearted beneath the cynical front and whip-smart and funny and generous and good. And now Grantaire has money, which for some people serves as an aphrodisiac. Yet the room’s disarray and Grantaire on his knees pawing through his possessions is proof enough that his statement is true.

“You know why.” Then Grantaire’s hand closes triumphantly on a tiny bottle and he lets out a muffled sort of shout.

“Good work,” says Enjolras. He watches Grantaire fairly stalk back to the bed, where he sinks between Enjolras’ thighs, frees his hand, and swallows his cock like he’s been training for years to do so. 

Perhaps he has. 

Then it is Enjolras’ turn to exclaim -- Grantaire’s mouth is hot and wet and suctioned tight around him, and so, so eager. His tongue is profoundly skilled; his lips, when they seal close, are pliable. Enjolras feels his hips twitch up from the bed, pushing deeper, and Grantaire takes it, takes all of him in, bobs to a persistent rhythm that earns an astonished gasp from Enjolras. The scrape of Grantaire's bearded cheek against his skin gets a second gasp, then a third.

Enjolras’ fingers scrabble at the bedsheet, then at Grantaire’s head. With a thought sent up to Grantaire’s lost locks he manages to find purchase in his hair and holds. He fucks into Grantaire’s compliant, clever mouth; Grantaire _consumes_ him, and it goes on and on and on and it’s never felt like this, never--

“Grantaire, I can’t, I’m going to--”

For the half-second he tears his mouth away, Grantaire’s hand pumps his cock with a wicked upstroke. “You fucking _better_ \--” 

And then the tight impossible heat is back and Enjolras is losing his mind, having it sucked out. He comes explosively, shuddering as he throws back his head, and Grantaire just keeps going like he might not stop. Like he’ll lick Enjolras hard again and then soft and then hard in an infinite ceaseless blowjob circle and Enjolras will _let_ him, will _beg_ him to--

The noise when Grantaire pulls back is wetly obscene. Enjolras pants for breath, for bearing, for words to describe what has just occurred. His lips part but nothing emerges.

Grantaire settles on his haunches, folds arms across his chest, smirks like he’s won an award. An Oscar, maybe, for best performance. Or the Nobel Prize for excellence in biology. “You were saying?”

“Good...good work,” manages Enjolras.

“You’re damned right,” says Grantaire, bending to press kisses up Enjolras’ stunned, spread thighs. “Some of my finest. Christ, you’re beautiful. Look at you. Of course you’d have a perfect cock. I could suck you for _days_."

Enjolras isn’t sure how to respond to that, so he hooks a finger in Grantaire’s waistband. Grantaire gets the message and shimmies out of his boxers. His cock is long and thick, curved up from its base of black hair, so hard that Enjolras’ hand goes at once to grip and start to stroke him toward relief. 

Grantaire watches this happen a while -- Enjolras’ hand, closed on his cock, learning how best to handle him. He bites his lip until it shows white from the strain.

“I could come just like this,” Grantaire says softly, like an offer. 

“And have all your searching be in vain?” Enjolras gestures with his free hand to encompass the ruined boxes, the scattered chaos across the floor. “I think not.”

“Right, then.” Grantaire lets out a breath. He finds the cast-aside bottle on the bed and flicks it open. “I’ll--”

“You fucking better,” says Enjolras, in precisely the same tone Grantaire used on him minutes before. He edges his legs further apart. His body feels boneless, blissful, muscles relaxed from head to toe, more ready than he’s ever been. 

It’s been awhile since he’s done this. The last time he can recall calls to mind a sort of curious detachment -- following the needs of his body and none of his mind. Now both are united in the game. He wants this just as much, more, than he needs it. The feeling would frighten him if he had mental space to worry about it, but he’s full-up at the moment, and when Grantaire’s careful slicked fingers slide inside him, there is no room for any other thoughts at all. 

“Fuck,” articulates Enjolras.

Grantaire hides a smile against Enjolras’ knee. “Man, we’ll get there. I promise you that.” 

But Grantaire takes his time, opening Enjolras up slowly to his fingers, easing them in and out with overwhelming gentleness. He’s unhurried, watching the process with an unfathomable expression on his face. 

“Grantaire--?”

“I want to paint you,” says Grantaire, half to himself, as though in a trance. “I have before, from my mind’s eye, from dreams, but I never could have imagined that you’d look like this. Every inch of you is a separate masterpiece. The whole of you is an epic told in Homeric verse. I don’t have the pigments to capture the flush of red under your skin; I’d need to make a new paint. For your hair I’ll buy gold leaf. Your eyes are stars and cannot be rendered by mortal hands, but I--”

Enjolras tries mightily not to roll his star-hued eyes. “You need to fuck me,” he finishes. 

“I--” Grantaire snaps back at once. “Oh. Yes. _Yes. _Enjolras, if you’re--”__

“Come here.”

And Grantaire obeys for once without question, pulling free his fingers and settling back down. He kisses Enjolras’ open mouth. Their eyes are open. Grantaire doesn’t need to be prompted again. He lines up his cock and thrusts into Enjolras, smooth and deep. His hands catch and cover Enjolras' on the bed.

Enjolras’ legs cradle him close, then wrap around to urge him further. Grantaire is big and it has been a long time, but he has never been so well-prepared, so accepting. When Grantaire is all the way in he fits like he was made to be there. Thinking about that, Enjolras forgets to breathe.

“Are you…” Grantaire’s voice is in his ear and Grantaire is within him, holding still. “Should I…”

“Grantaire.” Enjolras has to take in air in order to shape the name, so he starts to breathe again, and his body fires up with oxygen; his body is on fire, he’s burning up. “You feel--I--”

“Give me something to go on,” Grantaire murmurs, the strain of keeping back showing in his corded arms. “If you need me to stop, I can do that.”

“Never stop,” says Enjolras.

Grantaire almost shakes apart above him with relief. His answering grin is euphoric. “I can do that, too,” he says, draws almost all the way out to thrust home, assured of passage now. Then he repeats the motion again and again and again and again and: “God. My God, your _face_. If you could see your face right now. It’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever--” 

Enjolras lifts his head to kiss Grantaire quiet, and Grantaire is quiet after that, save for the moans he can’t keep down. Without speech the sound of their joined bodies is a resonant chorus. When they gain speed, the slide of skin on skin and the thud of the mattress against the wall raise a deafening roar.

When Enjolras breaks from kissing Grantaire, when he hears his voice urging Grantaire to keep going, to take him faster, harder, to fuck him fuck him _fuck_ him, it is as from a great distance.

He knows the pleas belong to him, but he is centered in his rejoicing body and unconcerned about the noises that slip free unbidden. All that matters is Grantaire above him and inside him. The universe contains two people and it is infinite.

Enjolras is hard again. Grantaire has hold of his cock, tight. (“You’re so tight,” says Grantaire.)

Grantaire is good. Grantaire is very good. Grantaire is spectacular. Grantaire is a supernova of energy and execution, alternates pounding rhythm with slow, teasing strokes. Both actions create a cascade of sparks that begin behind Enjolras’ eyes and electrify his body and travel all the way to his toes. His toes are curled. His hands are claws, scraping red lines into the skin of Grantaire’s back. His throat is raw from begging.

Grantaire is sucking a blood-bruise into his neck, where his shoulder starts, is leaving a mark. Grantaire says into his skin, “I may have misspoke. I don’t think I can do this forever.” A beat, a thrust that rocks them. “I’ll try, though.”

“Don't stop.”

“I’ll definitely try. Trust me, I’d keep us like this if I could.”

“Grantaire. Will you do me a favor?”

“Anything. Anything you ask.”

“Don’t let me forget that it can feel like this. Don’t let me forget. I don’t want to. I don’t want to be the way I was.”

“I love the way you are.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.” Grantaire’s hair is ink-black with sweat, lips kissed scarlet. “Did I just agree to fuck you every night?”

“And in the mornings,” says Enjolras. The sun is in their eyes. “Sometimes I could take a long lunch.”

Grantaire is shaking, half with laughter, half with the considerable effort of his body. “Signed and sealed,” he tells Enjolras. “If I deliver a repeat performance after lunch today, will you let me come now?”

“I’ll consider it,” says Enjolras, attempting magnanimous when he’s so close to the edge he is barely holding it together. But he doesn’t want them to end.

So Grantaire drives onward, until -- “Your verdict, counsel?”

It’s too much; Enjolras gives in all over again, gives up hot and wet over Grantaire’s coaxing hand, all of his tension released in a rush of pleasure that spikes his heart-rate and clouds his vision and makes him cry out.

He can’t speak proper words, words are lost, but he’s nodding, nodding so that Grantaire groans and buries himself deep as he can go and spills into him. Grantaire stays there with his forehead pressed to Enjolras’ and his eyes open wide. Grantaire’s pupils are blown black with their success, his mouth ajar and breath quick; the strength goes out of his arms but he stays inside Enjolras through sheer will alone. When he draws out at last it is with great reluctance.

Grantaire rolls over to collapse on his back beside Enjolras. He’s panting as though he’s run a marathon and the expression on his face says that he’s taken first place. He reaches for Enjolras’ hand and folds their fingers together.

They don’t need to say anything about it, not right then. It’s understood between them what that was. Grantaire squeezes his hand, and Enjolras squeezes back, and it is more than enough. They rest, afloat after tremendous achievement.

Some time later Enjolras turns in against Grantaire, fits his chin to Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire blinks lazily back at him, contentment writ in the smoothed lines of his face. His beard hides the edges of a quirked smile.

“So I may have lost it a little back there,” Enjolras admits.

“Did you?” Grantaire’s voice is brimming with music, as though any moment he might break into song. “What I thought happened is that you demanded daily sexual servitude from me, and I was like, _where do I sign._ Take my soul if ye must, Mephistopheles.” Their hands are still holding; Grantaire lifts his free hand and brushes back an errant lock of Enjolras’ hair. “As far as Faustian bargains go, Faust got a real shit deal by comparison.”

Enjolras lands a kiss on Grantaire’s sweat-slick brow, then meets his eyes. They don’t need to say it, but he makes the attempt anyway. “Grantaire. That was...” Only he doesn’t have the adjectives after all.

“Yeah. It was.”

“I meant what I said,” says Enjolras, though is unnerves him to say so outside the moment. “I don’t want to go back. I can’t go back.”

Grantaire lets his amped-up smile fade a fraction, so that he looks more serious. “Where do we go, then?”

“Oh a second date.”

“A -- a date?”

“I mean, we don’t have to leave the bedroom. Last night was the first. If we ordered food in for lunch, that would qualify as our second date, don’t you think?”

“Your bizarre wishes are my command. Enjolras, what in God’s--”

“And if we have dinner tonight. That would be the third?”

“I’ve known you for six years and just completed my life’s mission of having you in my bed. I really think we can dispense with protocol.”

“Tonight,” Enjolras says, mostly to himself now, nodding confirmation. “Tonight counts as the third.”

“You are out of your exquisitely stunning, maddening mind--”

“Just trust me, okay?” and that pauses Grantaire, who nods, as though this goes without question. “It matters.”

“Ok-ay,” says Grantaire. “Can I go to first base now, or does that violate the new dating laws?” He’s tilted closer, eyebrows up, confused but amiable.

Enjolras dips his head. “You may,” he says gravely, and then Grantaire is kissing him and kissing him.

He loses his nerve over dinner, despite his best-laid plans. But after dinner, sleepy and satisfied in Grantaire’s arms, Enjolras starts a speech.

He argues for the perfection of the day they’ve passed, highlights the bouts of mind-blowing sex and snappy conversation, praises the food and the fixtures and keeps talking and talking until Grantaire interrupts, gently, to inquire whether he has a point or if this is a bedtime story he’s allowed to fall asleep to. Enjolras asks him to stay awake a few moments longer.

He starts to frame a different story, of what Grantaire has meant to him over the years, even when they were at odds. He speaks of all the wasted time when he refused to see what he has known since almost the beginning. He orates with the forward eloquence that has persuaded the most skeptical of juries; he puts himself on trial and has Grantaire for a judge.

Grantaire is listening with rapt attention and his mouth a line, an uncertain dash.

When Enjolras’ narration reaches the present he presses on into the future. He explains to Grantaire he cannot imagine a life that does not contain him. He volunteers himself. He’ll give his nights, his weekends, his holidays to the Warehouse, will render in-house legal services pro bono.

All he asks in return is half of this mattress. All he needs is for Grantaire to believe him when Enjolras tells him that he loves him.

It’s a lot to absorb for Grantaire. Courfeyrac was right. It’s a torrent of words and promises and passionate persuasion. The expression on Grantaire’s face takes some time to parse. But his eyes are the blue of the summer sky after spring storms have cleared. The verdict is in. He’s smiling now. He’s reaching for Enjolras' hand. He requests that Enjolras speak it once more, slowly this time, uncouched in any other explanation.

“I love you,” says Enjolras. "I’ll say it again and again."

“Never stop,” says Grantaire.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com) and what I love is to hear from you.


End file.
